


Good on the Dance Floor

by Laylah



Series: boys of summer [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explosion Metaphors, Fake RPF, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-14
Updated: 2008-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More movie star AU. Filming the second movie.</p><p>Archer should have known it could only lead to trouble when he and Kimberly were the last ones left on the set. Nothing good ever comes of humoring Kimberly on this much sleep dep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good on the Dance Floor

Archer should have known it could only lead to trouble when he and Kimberly were the last ones left on the set. Nothing good ever comes of humoring Kimberly on this much sleep dep. Even the crew has checked out and gone home to try to recover, and they should be doing the same — but instead Kimberly is lounging against one of the club’s loudspeakers, head back to bare his throat, so fucking photogenic it’s like he expects _EW_ to show up any second.

“Quitting time,” Archer says. “Come on. We can share a cab back.”

“In a minute,” Kimberly says. “You don’t want to go out and hit a real club for a little while?”

Archer smirks. “Any place I want to go,” he says, ducking the question, “they wouldn’t let you in the door dressed like that.” The wardrobe people have done a great job of making Kimberly into the vapid techno club bunny that Zee is supposed to be, though there’s nothing they can do about the way he looks good in the outfit anyway. His jeans ride low, threatening to slide off his hip bones, and the tight little tank top he wears leaves almost a hand’s breadth of bare skin between its hem and the jeans’ waistband. The glitter smudged on his cheeks should look ridiculous, especially now that the club’s colored lights have been shut off, but somehow he still makes it attractively fey.

And he laughs, and his laugh has always threatened to sabotage Archer’s self-control. “Come on,” he says, “wouldn’t it be fun to go out and get a taste of what it’s really like?” He pushes off the speaker and takes a step or two out onto the dance floor, moving a little to music only he can hear. He raises his arms, sways like he’s almost liquid. The beaded bracelets on his wrists slide down, showing off the way his hands move.

Archer shouldn’t be thinking about the elegance of the bones in Kimberly’s wrists. He tries to distract himself by thinking like he’s in character. Jay Bowman would look at that and see trash he could be pimping. Robin Fletcher would be planning to peel back the skin and get a better look at those bones. Between the two of them, those ideas are ugly enough to keep Archer from getting hard. “I want to get some sleep,” he says. “I’m hoping I’ll wake up in time to call Gwyneth before we have to come back here tomorrow night.”

Kimberly stops in mid-sway. “You’re serious about her?” he asks.

“It’s a Hollywood romance,” Archer parries.

“Ah,” Kimberly says. He smiles, but only with his mouth. “You ever think about that party we had at Greed’s place after we wrapped _Reaction_?”

Archer’s turn for a brittle smile. “You know what they say about things that happen in Vegas,” he says.

“Fuck, that’s cold,” Kimberly says. He shoves his hands in his pockets, looks away. His body language is always expressive, and right now he’s speaking volumes. It doesn’t even matter if he’s acting; it still works.

“It’s not — I’m not trying to be a dick,” Archer says. “We have careers to worry about, you know?”

Kimberly looks up at him, sharp and wary. It could still all be fake, but it looks convincing. “I’m not asking you to be my fucking date to Sundance or anything.”

That’s an easy cue. “What are you asking for, then?”

It comes out in his Fletcher voice, but Kimberly doesn’t miss a beat. They’re still characters even when they’re themselves. “Come here and find out.”

Next time they do a project together, Kimberly should play the killer. He’s got the smile for it, a little too wide, eyes a little too bright. He looks capable of anything.

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” Archer says, but he’s coming down the steps onto the main dance floor anyway. The truth is he didn’t need those godawful cocktails Greed was mixing at the party the first time, and the hangover was the part he’s least interested in revisiting.

“Not going to tell anyone,” Kimberly says. He reaches out and hooks his fingers into Archer’s belt loops, dragging them closer together. “Just relax.” They fit together easily, their bodies a good match, and all of Archer’s characters’ nasty ideas evaporate like they were never there. He remembers this from the party, no question — how Kimberly felt stretched out long and lean beside him, how his nerves crackled like firecrackers when they touched. It’s no better sober, maybe even worse. Kimberly leans into him, grinds against him like there’s music playing after all, and Archer moans. It’s too loud in the quiet.

Kimberly hums in answer, splaying one hand flat across Archer’s back to hold him there, the other hand wandering. His eyes are closed, his expression distant, like he’s concentrating on something important.

“The DJ’s gone home for the night,” Archer says. He feels awkward, unsure where to put his hands — they won’t settle, tracing Kimberly’s shoulder blades through thin damp cotton, sliding down to meet the bare skin below the tank top’s hem, fumbly as a teenager again. “There’s nothing to dance to.”

“Don’t let that stop you,” Kimberly says quietly, his breath warm against Archer’s throat. Bite, Archer wants to tell him, but makeup would complain tomorrow and then someone would start asking questions about who was responsible for that when Archer’s supposed girlfriend was three time zones away. Instead he just gets a grip on Kimberly’s jeans with both hands and holds on, rocking back. It’s a poor excuse for dancing, and he’s always thought so, never gotten comfortable with the idea of miming sex on a crowded dance floor.

It’s not much better when the room is empty, and when he’s with someone who — who makes him wish they weren’t just miming. Fuck.

Maybe he says that out loud, because Kimberly laughs, and sounds almost as nervous as Archer feels. “Don’t know if I’m up for _that_ ,” he says. “And definitely not here.”

“Don’t be so — you know that’s not what I meant,” Archer says, but he knows he’ll never get the idea entirely out of his head now. He finds himself mentally listing unflattering metaphors for Kimberly’s effect on his peace of mind. Sledgehammers. Earthquakes. Car bombs.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal unless you want it to be,” Kimberly says, but he sounds stilted, like he’s delivering a line he doesn’t quite believe himself.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Archer wants to say. He settles for, “I don’t need reassurance,” and his acting’s gone to hell too, but Kimberly doesn’t call him on it.

“Okay,” is all he says, stepping back and pulling Archer with him until they’re flat against the wall of speakers. It’s easier to balance here, to just lean into Kimberly’s body and push, grinding their cocks together. So they’re hot for each other, fine; Archer can live with that. Maybe they need to screw around once or twice a movie to keep themselves from getting out of control; it’s not like –

Kimberly kisses him. His lips are more lush and soft than they have any right to be, and he closes his eyes, so his lashes are a dark smudge above the silvery shimmer on his cheekbones. He tastes like cinnamon chewing gum. He croons in his throat when Archer bites his tongue, and Archer goes weak in the knees like just that is enough to take him down. His resolve collapses inward like a building demolished with one well-placed charge. More explosion metaphors. He works both hands into Kimberly’s hair, wrecking the smoothness of his ponytail, and kisses like it’s the end of the world. They should do a disaster movie. They’re doing a disaster movie right now.

He can feel Kimberly’s fingers tugging his belt unbuckled, fumbling his pants open. He should protest or know better or both. Kimberly’s knuckles brush his cock, fighting now with the button fly of his own jeans. Archer won’t let the kiss end, doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Kimberly catches both their cocks in one long-fingered hand and Archer makes plenty of damning noise without even coming up for air. It’s unfair and unreasonable that Kimberly can do so much damage with just his hands. Archer bites harder, pushes into the smooth trap of Kimberly’s hand and cock. It feels better sober. He didn’t want to know that. They’re going too fast, out of control, an action sequence on a highway: destined to end in a horrible crash. If they don’t cut this out they’re going to make a mess of their clothes, and wardrobe will bitch louder than makeup, for better reason.

Archer tries to pull back and Kimberly moans, bites his lip and follows him. Thin blood sharpness creeps into the kiss, telltale and unsafe in so many ways. Archer’s hands tighten, pulling Kimberly’s hair hard.

It doesn’t stop him, not in the least. Instead he shudders, jerks like he’s been hit with a taser, his breath stuttering and the heavy slickness of come coating both of their cocks, and Archer mumbles against his mouth, “Don’t stop or I’ll kill you,” because when there are cameras running Archer’s in control of this, but alone, improvising, he’s out of his depth and out of control and going off like a gunshot in Kimberly’s hand.

“That was ridiculous,” is the first thing Archer says afterward. “I had more stamina than that in high school.”

Kimberly snorts. “Yeah, and you probably didn’t spend weeks teasing and not doing anything about it back then, did you?” He looks down. “Fuck. I’m going to have to get to the goddamn laundromat before shooting tomorrow night.”

If you’d had more sense, Archer doesn’t say. “My apartment has a little washer and dryer in the kitchen,” he says. When the dryer is running, he’s learned, it’s not wise to use anything else electrical at the same time. “We can go back to my place.”

“Oh yeah?” Kimberly says. He looks entirely too hopeful. They’ve been done for thirty seconds.

“When we get back to the set tomorrow,” Archer says, because he doesn’t think he can hold to it if he makes ultimatums for tonight, “that’s it. We’re not doing this again.”

“Ever?” Kimberly asks.

Archer opens his mouth to say yes, exactly. “At least until this one is wrapped.”

That’s a real smile, crinkling the corners of Kimberly’s eyes, nothing forced about it. “All right,” he says. “Give me a minute to go clean up.”

“You do that,” Archer says, trying to ignore his own reactions to that. “I’ll call us a cab.”


End file.
